


all down your shoulders and back

by eleadore



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, Genderswap, Non AU, Romance, Schmoop, Sexswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 15:14:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2472833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleadore/pseuds/eleadore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis has known Harry for three years now, and she's had plenty of practice avoiding thoughts like <i>that</i>, for her own sake and everyone else's. </p><p>If she ever slips up, it’s because she’s drunk, or high, or Harry’s just threatened to cut off her hair.</p><p>(Non AU. Harry and Louis are cisgirls. Everything else is more or less the same.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	all down your shoulders and back

**Author's Note:**

> written for a tumblr prompt that got away from me. thanks to maggie for all that enthusiasm and lane for the title, which is from ed sheeran's tenerife sea!

It’s a little after one in the afternoon and Louis has just woken up from a nap when Harry climbs back onto the bus, shakes her hair out, and announces, “I’m going to cut it off.”

Louis dribbles tea down her front. “What?” 

Harry, red-faced and hair a wild, hideous tangle, still manages to look superior. “Where’s your bib, Louis?” 

“Oh, fuck off.” Louis would lay in on her under any other circumstance, because only yesterday Louis had made her laugh so hard she sprayed cereal all over Paul, but Harry’s still fighting with her hair, and the mutinous expression on her face makes Louis reconsider. She clears her throat and puts the tea down, just in case. “What’s all this about a cut, then?”

Harry huffs. Her button-up gapes when she leans forward, because she hasn’t actually done up all the buttons. She’s wearing a bra, for once, but Louis still makes a point to stare fixedly at her chin as Harry draws her hair out with one hand and makes a vicious chopping motion with the other, right under her chin. “I’m done with this mess. And Lou says I’d look sick with like, a shag.” 

She frowns deeply at Louis’ scoff and swings her hair back over her shoulder. It falls just shy of the dip of her back, a riot of curls that seems to have doubled in volume thanks to the humidity. Australia’s been wicked so far, but the heat is stifling and driving them all a little closer to the edge. Niall’s got a sunburn on his dick, Zayn’s already run out of the good weed, Liam’s been so easy to coax into joining Louis on misadventures that Paul had to separate them, and Harry—Harry’s decided to cut off her hair.

She’s not serious, of course. The last time she let Lou approach her with a pair of scissors was when Louis attacked her with a wad of gum on a dare (so, really, Niall’s fault) and it got so hopelessly tangled they had to cut a chunk out from the side that no amount of styling could disguise. Harry hadn’t spoken to Louis for a week after the fact, so she suspects this is going nowhere, but as Louis has a personal investment in these curls she reckons it can’t hurt to do her part.

“ _Louise_ ,” Louis says, “just wants to experiment on you. Have you forgotten our poor Liam? Was his sacrifice in vain?” 

As though summoned, Liam wanders into the lounge, yawning. He pulls his hand out of his boxers when Harry makes a gagging noise. “They’re itchy,” he mumbles, taking a seat next to Louis, who pointedly leans away. “Anyway, what? I heard my name. What’re we talking about?”

“Your ugly hair,” Louis says, and Liam nods solemnly before dragging the hand he’d been scratching his balls with down Louis’ arm. Louis shrieks and pinches him viciously, and by the time she turns back to Harry, she’s gone.

Louis donates the remainder of her tea to Liam’s lap and goes after her. Harry’s been out of sorts all week, prone to laughing hysterically at Louis’ antics one moment and acting like she doesn’t exist the next. This morning she tripped on the treadmill while they were shooting, then ran out of her preferred brand of gum, and bad hair throws her into a sulk on a good day. Who knows what she might do? Louis can’t risk it. 

So she catches up to Harry in the car park, weaving between buses and crew, and shouts, “AND DON’T FORGET!” in her ear. Harry jumps, because Louis is all stealth. “We all have our roles to play, yeah? Yours is Crazy Hair. You’d best accept it.”

Harry rolls her eyes. “It can be crazy and short. Maybe I’ll dye it.” 

“Whoa, whoa, _whoa_. Slow down, rebel.” 

“Anyway,” Harry says, “I thought my role was Tits?”

“To my Arse,” Louis confirms, and hops in place a little, because the pavement is hot and she hadn’t bothered to put on any shoes. Harry watches her blankly until she starts whining, and then heaves a sigh, draws her hair over one shoulder, and crouches. Louis climbs onto her back with a gleeful shout and clings, burying her nose in Harry’s curls. Her scent warms the pit of Louis’ belly like it always does, and Louis ignores it, like she always does. “But there’s multiple roles, like. It’s complicated.” 

“Mm,” Harry says, adjusts her grip on Louis’ legs, and starts walking. They’ve still got a few hours before soundcheck and Louis is getting hungry, but the health and safety of Harry’s hair is more important.

“Besides,” Louis says lightly, like this isn’t her best play, “cutting it might put your ears in the line of fire. They might become, you know. Visible.” 

Louis can hear the smile in Harry’s voice. “S’alright. I’ve heard they look quirky.”

“What idiot told you that?” Louis demands, and lets her idiot self slump when Harry laughs. 

They spot Paul as they near catering, and he points a threatening finger in Louis’ direction, because possibly she’d napped instead of going over security detail like she promised him she would. Louis slides off Harry’s back hurriedly and waits until she raises her hands in surrender at Louis’ finger guns before saying, “this isn’t over,” and making a run for it.

— 

There’s an hour to the show and Louis is running late. Liam had kicked open a locked door, _entirely_ of his own volition, and righting his wrongs took more time than Louis could have predicted. She’s a saint, but Paul never sees it that way, so Louis’ working herself into a frenzy backstage when she runs across Harry and Lou in the dressing room, whispering with their heads bent together like a pair of criminals. 

Louis’ still in the clothes she’d sweated through during soundcheck—Zayn’s vest and what might be her last pair of clean jeans—but she postpones getting dressed to yank Harry out of the makeup chair and plop down in her place.

“All right, that’s enough of that! My turn!” She snaps her fingers in the air until Lou smacks her hand away and walks off, probably to attack Zayn with more hair spray. Harry’s still leaning against the table, watching her, so Louis stays in the chair and sticks her tongue out at Harry’s reflection in the mirror. She receives a pair of crossed eyes for her trouble.

“See you’ve got your hair sorted,” Louis says casually, flicking her own fringe into place, and Harry flattens her mouth in the way she does when she’s trying not to smile.

She shrugs, and her hair bounces a little before settling against her shoulders, soft and heavy. “Yeah. For now.”

Louis doesn’t like the sound of that. 

“Well, if it gets too hot you could always, like. You could braid it.” 

“Or,” Harry says thoughtfully, drawing out the word long enough to make Louis fidget. “I could cut it.”

Not an option. “You could put it up in a bun? It’d look sick in a bun.”

“Or I could cut it.” 

“Okay, you’re bad at this,” Louis observes, and Harry’s face breaks into a grin. 

Louis would reach out to poke her dimple, but right now she doesn’t quite trust herself not to grab a fistful of Harry’s hair and pull her in, so she settles for tipping the chair back and nearly breaking her neck instead. Harry catches her, because of course she does, and for a second her hair curtains both their faces. 

It smells like sweat and product, same as the rest of them. Louis doesn’t know why it makes her thighs clench. 

Harry rights her and steps back. Someone’s shouting her name, and it’s only seconds before Louis loses her to the pre-show buzz, but it feels like those seconds stretch for hours, and leave her insides lurching like she knows no one’s going to break this fall. 

—

Later, Louis will only remember bits and pieces from the show: slipping twice and nearly taking Liam out with her, saying something that had Niall laughing so hard he snorted, the look on Zayn’s face when she faked handing him a water bottle. The deafening screams when Harry flipped her hair and the way she grinned, like sweaty and adored was what she was born to be.

Louis doesn’t know she’s going to catch Harry’s arm until she does, and Harry looks just as surprised. Louis ignores the swell of noise from the crowd and tugs impatiently. Harry ducks her head down so Louis can reach her ear, and they’re too close, all of a sudden, on _stage_ and close enough to—

“Don’t cut it.” It’s not what Louis meant to say. She can’t remember what she meant to say. “Please. I don’t want you to.”

For a beat, Harry just looks at her. Louis doesn’t know what she sees, but whatever it is makes her bite her lip and say, “Yeah. All right.” 

“Yeah?” Louis repeats stupidly. Harry’s hair has become matted with sweat, sticking to her temples and neck, curling wildly. Louis can see her pulse rabbiting, wants to put her mouth to it so badly it’s like a physical ache. She can’t concentrate. What’s happening? They’re in the middle of a show. Louis’ never lost her grip this badly before. “You—all right?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, and her smile, when it appears, is sweet. 

—

Nothing happens. 

It’s not like Louis expects anything to, but the next few days are an exercise in things not happening. They have a day off, then one more show in Melbourne before packing up again, and it’s business as usual. The temperature doesn’t drop, Harry doesn’t cut her hair, and Louis doesn’t think about whether it’s because of her, _for_ her, because down that road lies madness. It’s bad enough that she has to deal with Harry first thing in the morning, bleary eyed and buttering a bloody croissant, hair a sweet-smelling, sleep-tangled mess. Or at the end of the day, piling her hair atop her head before struggling out of her too-tight jeans, while rebellious curls slip free almost instantly. 

Louis doesn’t look, and definitely doesn’t think about crowding up against Harry’s back and burying her face in her hair, slipping a hand inside her knickers and finding her sopping wet, fingerfucking her until she cries and comes. Of course not. Louis has known Harry for three years now; she’s had plenty of practice avoiding thoughts like that, for her own sake and everyone else’s. 

If she ever slips up, it’s because she’s drunk, or high, or Harry’s just threatened to cut off her hair.

But that’s a crisis averted, so Louis does her best to forget. She’s a little louder than usual, a little more _unfuckingbearable, Louis, do you want to die? Go take a fucking nap,_ according to Zayn, but fine. 

They land in Brisbane and step out of the airport to discover the air is wet and they might melt if they stay still for too long. Harry looks like she’s going to curl up into a little ball right there on the pavement, but Liam rounds up their security and drags Louis to the beach before she can take Harry aside and reinforce her views on haircutting. 

Surfing wipes Louis out. By the time they get back to the hotel, parts of her she hadn’t known existed have begun to ache. It’s a bone-deep thing, the kind of punch only the bloody ocean can pull, but she’s wide awake too, absolutely buzzing. Everyone’s disappeared into their own rooms, either sleeping off the heat or being otherwise boring, so Louis hikes up the air conditioning and hops into the shower.

The room is arctic when she gets out, but Louis still feels hot and stretched thin, as though sunburned on the inside. She pulls on a vest and pants before flopping into bed, meaning to watch a bit of bad telly and shut her brain off, but somehow her hand finds its way between her legs, and then she’s rubbing one out properly, legs spread, feet planted flat on the bed. 

She doesn’t think about Harry. She doesn’t even think about girls, not all the time, even though it gets her off the fastest. She’s twenty-one years old and she’d like to keep her options open, even if it’s by sheer force of will. Sometimes her mind wanders, but Louis can’t help that, can she? Sometimes an anonymous pair of tits will start to seem familiar, and the long, slim fingers she pictures fucking her will—suddenly!—don Harry’s rings. It’s not like Louis’ fantasizing about her bandmate—her _best mate_ —on purpose, because that’s. Foolish.

Impossible. 

“Fuck,” Louis mutters, draws her fingers out and pulls up her pants. She’s so wet she’s already slicked up the insides of her thighs, but guilt makes for less than pleasant company, and she might need to meet Harry’s eyes at some point in the future. This hair business fucked her up; she had a good thing going, easy to forget and easier to excuse, and now— 

She’s sullenly kicking the covers off the bed when the door clicks open and Harry stomps inside. Louis gets a second to take in a breath and think, _fuck, my fingers are wet,_ before Harry down flops on top of her and shakes her hair out in Louis’ face, like something straight out of a wet dream.

Except Harry’s scowling, and her knee digs painfully into Louis’ side not once, not twice, but— 

“Ow! Harry, fucking—” 

“Look at this,” Harry says, and tosses her head so her hair effectively blankets Louis’ face. It’s heavy, still damp, and smells so strongly of Harry’s shampoo that Louis humps up involuntarily, hands curling into fists. For reasons unknown to Louis, Harry’s still talking. “D’you have any idea how long it takes me to wash? The shampoo gets tired, Louis. My arms are tired. And _brushing_ it—” 

“Bloody hell,” Louis manages to say, once she’s shoved Harry upright and can breathe again, “I’ll brush it for you, you big baby, just get—off—” 

Louis doesn’t _forget_ that Harry’s bigger and more than capable of holding her down, exactly, but it’s at times like this that she gets an unpleasant reminder. Trying to flip Harry to the side only has her settling more comfortably, straddling Louis’ thigh and still fucking going on about her hair in that morbid tone of voice that’s, somehow, because of some corner of Louis’ brain that Harry’s _warped,_ making Louis wetter. 

“So you say that now,” Harry’s saying grimly, “but you don’t know—” 

Louis never gets to find out what she doesn’t know, because her hips drive up again, rocking her cunt against Harry’s bare thigh, and Harry cuts herself off. 

For a second they just stare at each other, and the only thing Louis can hear is her own heart, pounding, pounding.

“You’re—”

“You interrupted me,” Louis blurts. “I was in the middle of—and you interrupted.” 

“Sorry,” Harry says faintly, and moves her leg just the tiniest bit, just enough to seem like an accident. But Louis knows her, and knows how to read her, and intent is written all over her face: in her wide, dark eyes, and the way she swallows, then wets her mouth. “You’re really, uhm. Were you close?”

“Jesus, Harry,” Louis says, trying to keep her voice steady. She shifts her hips back but Harry moves with her, seamlessly, leaning forward so Louis just ends up rubbing off against her. Louis’ so wet there’s barely any friction on her clit, but the pressure makes her cry out, short and high. “Fuck.” 

Harry bites her lip. Louis’ soaked right through her knickers and can’t stop _moving_ , streaking Harry’s thigh with her slick. Her face feels like it’s on fire, and it’s only when Harry drops a hand down to touch her hip that Louis pushes her away and scrambles upright.

“What the fuck,” she manages, once she’s got her breath back. “Harry—what are you doing?” 

There’s silence. Harry’s hands curl at her sides and she cuts her eyes away. 

“You know what,” she says, and sets her jaw when Louis makes a disbelieving noise. When she looks back at Louis her brows are furrowed, mouth drawing into an unconscious pout. “Were you thinking about me? When you were getting yourself off. Were you?”

Louis clamps her thighs together, as though that’ll change how mortifyingly wet she is. “Are you mad?” 

“I’m not blind,” Harry says, and draws her hair over one shoulder, letting it brush against Louis’ raised knees. There’s something triumphant about the way she tilts her head when Louis shivers, because she’s a child who gets off on getting her way. 

Louis wants her so fucking badly. 

“Louis. Just say it.” 

“It’s bad for business,” is what Louis says. “You know that.”

“Bullshit. You know I’ve fooled around before,” Harry says, like Louis needs to be reminded of all the times she’s walked in on her and Zayn _fooling around_. “And everything worked out fine. Why’s this any different?” 

Because Zayn isn’t in love with you, Louis doesn’t say. “I don’t want to fool around.” 

“But _why?_ ”

Frustration is turning Harry red. She looks like she’s one no away from throwing a proper strop, but when Louis shrugs, she deflates instead, drawing her shoulders in, presence shrinking into something so small it makes Louis a little frantic. 

“I’ve done stuff with girls, you know. I’m not, like, awful at it.” 

Louis can’t keep from laughing hysterically. “Harry. For fuck’s sake. I don’t think you’re _bad at sex._ ” 

“Good,” Harry says stiffly, “because I’m not,” and swings her legs off the bed. Her hair shields most of her face, but Louis sees enough of it to recognize the unhappy twist of her mouth, and it has Louis’ heart rising right up into her throat. She grabs Harry’s wrist before she can get up, draws her in so quickly their noses bump once, twice, before Harry’s mouth slots against hers.

Louis hasn’t allowed herself to wonder what it would feel like, but it doesn’t matter, because she couldn’t have imagined this anyway. Harry’s mouth is so soft it makes her gut clench, the inside as hot and slippery wet as Louis’ cunt. Her hair tickles Louis’ cheek, her neck, and smells good enough to make Louis dizzy. Kissing Harry feels better than fucking, better than _anything_ , and Harry moans, low in her throat, like she agrees.

“You want to,” Harry mumbles against her mouth, “right? Lou? You want to?” 

Her eyes are very green. Every instinct Louis has is screaming _danger,_ but Harry’s looking at her like she never wants to stop. Louis knows in her gut she won’t be walking away from this wreck, but Harry kisses her and she stops caring. 

So she says, “yeah,” and “c’mere,” gets a hand in Harry’s hair and pulls her down. Their legs slot together like they’ve been doing this for years, so easy it should alarm her, but Harry’s skin is warm and soft and Louis gets to touch her as much as she wants. There isn’t really any room left for thought. 

Harry’s wearing Niall’s old band tee and a black, lacy pair of knickers that would’ve driven Louis insane two years ago, before she learned how to block the curve of Harry’s arse and the swell of her hips from her mind. Having the freedom to think about it now is strange, and stranger still to be able to run her fingers over the lace and in between Harry’s legs, cup her cunt and make her whine. 

The heat of her shocks Louis. She’s bare and smooth, so easy for the lace to rough up. Rubbing her clit through the knickers makes Harry buck, and the harder Louis works her the harder she bites, teeth digging into the curve of Louis’ jaw, her neck, her tender bottom lip. 

“Gonna come like this?” Louis asks, but she doesn’t need an answer. It’s in the way Harry’s thighs tremble, the arch of her back, her wet eyes. She’s so slick it makes the slide of Louis’ fingers sloppy, but the persistent rub has to hurt a little anyway, so Louis makes encouraging noises low in her throat and calls her _darling_ , says, “that’s it,” and, “easy, easy.” 

Harry sinks her teeth into Louis’ shoulder when she comes, shuddering. Louis isn’t sure how she knows to get her fingers back on Harry’s clit, skin to skin this time, because just the thought of how oversensitive she must be makes Louis clamp her own thighs together, but she does, and Harry comes again, sweetly, with a hiss. 

“Fuck,” Harry gasps against Louis’ throat, but doesn’t pull away when Louis drags her fingers through the slick mess of her cunt, avoiding her clit to fuck two fingers in. She’s tight, so hot inside. Her knickers keep Louis from fucking her as fast as she wants, but it’s just as good to have the lace dig into her skin every time Louis moves her hand. Maybe it’ll leave a mark. _Louis was here_. “Oh, fuck.”

“Can you come again? Right now?” Harry clenches around Louis’ fingers so hard she nearly drives them out. Louis’ entire hand is wet. “Harry,” Louis presses. “Can you?” 

“Uh huh,” Harry slurs, once Louis starts thumbing at her clit. “I—yeah, I—” 

“How many times?”

“Dunno, just, please—” Harry cuts herself off as Louis crooks her fingers, and then shoves her hips down like that’ll get her more, like Louis isn’t knuckle-deep already. She’s greedy, Louis knew—god, Louis _knew_ she would be. For a wild second all Louis can think about is fucking her properly, with as big a dildo as she can take. Bigger. Pulling her hair while she drives it into her, hitting her spot with each hard thrust, until she comes crying, just—like—that. 

Louis’ seen her come before, because Harry has a bad habit of getting fingered in clubs by people she’s only met an hour ago, give or take a few shots, but the difference between watching her eyes flutter from across the table, the bar, the room, and having her fall apart on Louis’ fingers is—everything. Louis doesn’t know how she’s going to go back to keeping her distance, to pretending her eyes don’t catch on Harry’s mouth and hands don’t itch to dig into her hair and settle at the small of her back. If it’s even possible, if she hasn’t just—ruined it now. 

She pushes the thought aside and buries her face in Harry’s hair, works her through the aftershocks with slow, easy strokes, pulling her fingers out gently. Louis can’t resist brushing against her clit again, and Harry lifts her head to kiss her hard.

“No more,” Harry sighs, so Louis eases her hand from Harry’s knickers and slides it up her shirt to wipe it off on her belly. Harry squirms, and Louis laughs at the look on her face, because it’s the one she gets when she’s reconsidering something she’s just said.

“One more?” Louis offers, and her voice comes out rough, almost like she’s begging. Addicted already. Harry shakes her head no, but grinds back when Louis sets her leg between her thighs, and her mouth is red, sore-looking, opens easy for Louis’ tongue. “Think you can.”

“Know I can,” Harry says, and she’s laughing, brushing the hair out of her face, but pins Louis’ wrists to the bed when Louis tries to touch her again. 

“Yeah?” Louis’ lips feel numb from all the kissing. She wants more. “How many in a row?”

Harry shrugs, tits shifting under her shirt. Louis curls her hands into fists. “Dunno. I keep losing count. Maybe eight.” 

“We can beat that,” Louis promises, and Harry eyes her like she knows what Louis’ trying to do. She tightens her grip on Louis’ wrists when she wriggles, squeezing rhythmically as though chasing her pulse. There’s no give, no matter how Louis strains, and Harry barely looks like she’s exerting any effort at all. Louis tries to ignore the way that makes her clit throb. “Come on. I’ll even teach you how to count.”

“Twat,” Harry says, but kisses her again. 

“Bet you taste sweet,” Louis says, without really meaning to. It makes Harry’s eyes widen, like she hadn’t even considered the possibility of Louis eating her out, like that’s not the one thought Louis has to beat back every time Harry spreads her legs. Louis’ gut clenches in anticipation, but Harry just _looks_ at her for a long moment before sitting up again. 

Then, because she’s Harry, and filthier than Louis could ever hope to be, she releases Louis’ wrists to slip two fingers into her cunt and pull them out covered in come. She sucks one clean, smacks her lips like she’s fucking considering the taste, then shrugs and holds the other one up to Louis’ mouth. 

She does taste sweet. Her fingers get caught between their mouths because Louis can’t resist pulling her in for a kiss, sliding both hands into her hair and holding her head in place. If the kiss turns rough it’s because Louis can still taste her, tart and overwhelming, and Harry responds to every bite with a throaty little moan.

Then she pulls away entirely, shifting down Louis’ body until she’s settled between her legs. “Wanna do you.”

Louis sucks in a slow breath. It’s not like she’d forgotten she hasn’t gotten off yet, not like she hasn’t been rubbing herself with her free hand for the seconds she could stand not to touch Harry, but. Those seconds weren’t long. Harry isn’t the only greedy one. 

"You don't have to—"

“ _Want_ to,” Harry says, and snaps the waistband of Louis’ knickers. She looks up at the protesting sound Louis makes and tosses her hair so it sweeps over Louis' belly, the insides of her thighs. Louis clenches, can't help it, and Harry’s smirk says she knows. “You can pull my hair.” 

“Cheeky,” Louis gets out, and Harry hums happily, wriggling in place like she can’t wait to get her mouth on Louis’ cunt. “It takes me a while,” Louis blurts. “To come. Sometimes. So if you can’t—”

“I can,” Harry says, looking offended, and Louis doesn’t doubt her dedication, but she’s witnessed Harry fall into epic sulks over missing one bloody note. _In the shower._ Louis doesn’t think she’s ever been this wet, this fucking close, but she still doesn’t fancy taking her chances on Harry’s sore jaw. 

She means to say as much, but Harry takes the initiative to peel her knickers off, and the words die in Louis’ throat. She’s so wet her cunt has to look sloppy, deep pink and swollen, curls matted down, but Harry bites her lip and drags her nails down Louis’ thighs, eyeing her so hungry that Louis’ face burns. Maybe it’s that, or the cold air that makes her move to close her legs, but Harry shoulders her way between her thighs and spreads her wide open before Louis can so much as twitch.

Louis’ knickers are still caught around her ankle, but she’s too busy trying to breathe to shake them off. Harry eats her out like she has something to prove, pressing her face right up against Louis’ cunt, fucking her tongue in before she even touches her clit. 

Louis fists a hand in her hair before she can stop herself, grinding down against Harry’s face. There’s the covered press of teeth on her clit that has her thrashing, and then a long, hard suck. Louis knows she’s babbling, because her throat’s starting to hurt. Harry lets her control the pace for a glorious moment, moving her mouth where Louis wants her to, tonguing her gently, but it doesn’t last long. 

“Hazza,” Louis says. Thinks she says. It’s difficult to hear anything over the rush of blood in her ears. She’s never worked herself this hard before. It takes her ages to come, no matter how impatient she gets with her own body, so she’s learned to ease into it, coax the orgasm out. Harry’s eating her out like she wants her to come _now_ and won’t take no for an answer, and Louis—Louis might.

Her toes are curled so hard they’re starting to ache, and her fingers are cramping in Harry’s hair. Harry doesn’t fucking let up, not even when Louis yanks on it, not even when Louis thumps her side with her heels, clamps her thighs around her head. When she does pull back, Louis’ right at the edge, every little bit of her sore from tensing, and Harry looks up at her like she knows it.

There’s slick smeared all over her face. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and that barely gets any of it. 

“Stay still,” she says, voice low and thick. “You can ride my face later.” 

The promise of later makes Louis want to try, but she doesn’t think she has any sort of control over her body anymore. Her hips rise as soon as Harry gets her mouth on her again, and Harry gives her a disgruntled look before holding her hips down with both hands, nails digging into skin. She’s going to leave bruises, and it’s that—the thought of waking up tomorrow with a reminder pressed into her skin that makes Louis come, in long, wrenching pulses that leave her breathless and weak.

She can’t even catch her breath enough to tell Harry how sensitive she gets, but Harry seems to read the quiver of her thighs, or the way her fingers clench in her hair, and eases back to nuzzle into the cut of Louis’ hip. She leaves wet, sucking kisses on the insides of Louis’ thighs and darts her tongue in between the lips of her cunt like she can’t help wanting to lick her clean. When Louis finally regains control enough of her limbs to pull her up, she’s flushed, eyes dark and a little wet, like she’s the one who just came.

Maybe she did. 

Louis pulls Harry up by her hair, and that she gets to do that, that she’s allowed, sends a little shock through her body that’s not unlike another orgasm. Harry tastes like Louis, not nearly as sweet, but the way she licks her lips makes Louis think she doesn’t mind. 

“So? Was it good?” Harry asks, and she’d sound vulnerable if her face wasn’t still wet from Louis’ come. 

Louis tries to school her expression into anything other than lovesick. “What do you think?” 

“I think,” Harry says slowly, leaning their foreheads together and letting her hair fall dark and heavy around their faces. The scent has Louis pointing her toes, aftershocks making her cunt throb. “I think I want to hear you say it.”

“Not bad,” Louis allows, voice cracking a little. Harry’s dimples pop.

“Yeah?” She arches when Louis’ hands slip under her shirt to scratch her back, then round the front to paw at her tits. “Next time I might even get you naked.” 

_Next time._ Don’t think about it. Don’t fucking think about it.

Louis thinks about it.

“What makes you think I’ll let you?” she says, appropriately skeptical, as though there’s a chance of her rejecting Harry in any reality. Harry just hums and slots their mouths together, kissing her slow and easy. When she makes to pull back Louis realizes she’s dug her fingers into her hair again, clutching at her like a child with a favourite toy. Louis would feel embarrassed, but Harry’s laugh hitches in her throat when Louis tugs, and her eyes flutter shut. 

When she opens them again, Louis’ stomach swoops at what’s written on her face.

“Well,” Harry says, low like a secret, “I’m not cutting my hair.”

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](http://eleadored.tumblr.com/post/100330062941/can-you-please-please-write-harry-louis-femslash-ive). thanks for reading!


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